


Some Shameless Indulgence

by luxgloriana



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Infidelity, Vaginal Fingering, Woman on Top, mention of Arthur’s canon bisexuality, unhealthy post argument coping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-17 17:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16978686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxgloriana/pseuds/luxgloriana
Summary: Molly and Dutch fight, again.  Arthur helps Molly to indulge a little, and blow off some steam.  He does that in the most generous and altruistic way possible, by accepting her offer of a blow job.***Or, how speculating on the characterization of a low-honor Arthur Morgan filled me with an unholy need to write some smut with Arthur and Molly.





	Some Shameless Indulgence

**Author's Note:**

> I was a max-high honor Arthur my first play through of the game, so I decided to go low-honor for my second play. Then I realized I didn’t have it in me to be mean to the gang, so I decided my scumbag Arthur is still very respectful of women, and is very good and kind to the cool members of the gang (not Micha, Bill and Javier are on thin fucking ice) but horrible to everyone else. Somewhere along the way, I decided Bad Boy (tm) Arthur loved Dutch and in many ways regarded Dutch as he would an older brother and tried to emulate him (ie, Arthur wears fancy vests, like Dutch) but also has some serious competitiveness with Dutch—again, like he was an older brother Arthur wanted to live up to.
> 
> At some point, this turned into “Arthur has sex with Molly because neither of them have a super healthy relationship with Dutch” and it devolved from there.

Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he’d stayed at camp during the day. He’d been running from one end of this god forsaken state to the other, and well beyond its borders, for weeks. Ever since Cornwall and his men caught up to them in Valentine, and the whole gang had packed up and moved to Clemens Point, there had been no reprieve for Arthur. But that’s just what life is like when you’re the only goddamn competent person in this whole gang—

 _Alright, that’s not fair,_ a voice in Arthur’s mind offered, a voice that sounded quite a lot like Hosea.  The others more or less did their part.  The bank robbery in Valentine has actually turned out well—even if someone had shouted out and alerted the law that they had robbed the bank, at least they were halfway to the horses before it happened. Karen and Lenny had played their parts perfectly, and Bill hadn’t let his usual bloodthirst fuck things up. For once.

But since then, things had seen going to shit, as usual. Hosea had a grand plan to get rid of the Braithwaite’s moonshine that was ruined by the damn Lemoyne Raiders, and the fucking Greys had pulled one over on Marston and had  them all risk their lives to steal some horses from the Braithwaites at about one-tenth the price promised.

Well, and then Arthur had gone and gotten shot. Not too badly, mind you. He’d been riding along, traveling home from running a few errands in Saint Denis when more of those goddamn Raiders had ambushed him, just outside of Rhodes.  Arthur had killed all of them singlehandedly, but one of the backwards bastards was lucky enough to hit him. The idiot had probably been trying to hit him in the heart, Arthur reckoned, but since Arthur’s own bullet went through that man’s eye a second later, he wasn’t in any state to ask.

The bullet hit several inches away from its apparent target, and clipped Arthur on the very side of his chest, under his arm. It missed the bone and it mostly missed the muscle, but it drew blood, and ruined the brand new shirt and silk vest Arthur bought from the tailor in Saint Denis.

Bastard.  And Arthur had been thinking about letting one or two of them run off to go back to their pathetic gang and let them all know how had made them piss their pants in fear, too.  But Arthur had very literally killed men for less than ruining his clothes.  Oh, well. 

The wound needed a dozen or so stitches, and Strauss had told him—with Dutch and Hosea and Susan right there to witness, those motherhens—to rest for a few days. It would be very easy to rip those stitches open and ruin all of the healing that he’d already done.

So the whole camp knew that Arthur was supposed to rest, and they were all ready and willing to enforce that rest. When Arthur woke up the morning after he got shot, Tilly poured him a cup of coffee and admonished him for trying to bend over and do it himself—even though he could bend from his knees, _damn_ _it_ , without putting any strain on his side—and Pearson gave him some bread and an apple that he had already sliced for Arthur to eat for breakfast.

Sliced apples, just like Pearson gave Jack as an afternoon snack. God above, a bullet wound can’t stop him from eating an apple normally.

After eating, Abigail insisted on giving Arthur a shave, so that he wouldn’t have to raise his arms and do it himself. And she did a good job, even if it took her a little longer than it took him to do the same.

And then Hosea dropped by Arthur’s tent to lend him a book he though Arthur might like, Mary-Beth gave Arthur a few new pencils she’d recently stolen so he could sketch in his journal, and John stopped by to give him a hard time and joked about how disappointed he was that the the Raider didn’t have better aim.

Not that he would say it out loud, unless he got very drunk first, but Arthur appreciated all of their kindness and attention, he really did. Their love and respect kept him from thinking more bitter thought about how he pulled more than his fair share of weight for the gang—thoughts like that helped no one, least of all himself.  He just wished they didn’t think their kindness was necessary in the first place.

But shortly afterwards, most people left camp behind for their daily business. Hosea, John, Charles, and Lenny all left, and most of the girls were busy with Miss Grimshaw’s chores. Javier hadn’t left, but he wasn’t anywhere where Arthur could actually see him—was he on watch? Abigail was busy with Jack and, well. Those were the people that Arthur actually enjoyed having a conversation with. Even Sean and Bill had gone somewhere to do something for some reason. If they’d said why or what, Arthur didn’t really care, so he hadn’t paid attention.

So Arthur tried amuse himself. He tried to read Hosea’s book, but he couldn’t focus on the words on the page. It seemed interesting enough, but Arthur had never been very good at reading during the daytime—there was always something else that he felt like he should be doing, rather than lounging around.

Then he tried to sketch a few things in his journal, since that was a busier task for his mind and for his hands. He decided to sketch the herbs and things he’d picked yesterday while he was out and about. Arthur was trying to learn more about plants and herbs—it seemed like a good skill to have for years down the road, whenever he wasn’t as useful in a blazing gun fight—if he ever lived to see that day.  But that didn’t take up much time at all. He sketched the mint, thyme, a couple of mushrooms, and even the orchid he found out in the bayou.

And he was back to square one.

Arthur sat on his bed, back against his wagon, sighed, and felt sorry for himself for about three quarters of a minute, if his pocket watch was anything to go by.

 _Good_ _lord_ , what Arthur wouldn’t give to go _fishing_. But his rod was with all of his guns, in a chest in front of his wagon, right out in the open, where everybody could see him if he tried to get them.

Grumbling, Arthur pushed himself up, off of his bed, and left the shade of his tent to walk to the other side of camp to visit his horse, Albia. Albia’s saddle had been stolen—predictably—to keep him from going anywhere, not that he would have tried leaving on horseback, just yet—it had hurt like hell pulling himself up into her saddle yesterday, after he’d finished off the Raiders. But Arthur fed her a few oat cakes and a carrot, brushed down her gleaming white coat, and thank him with a few gentle licks of his hand.

Arthur had gone to a lot of trouble to find Albia in the endless drifts of snow, and to tame her, all based on a rumor from a number of drunken hunters who talked of a pure white horse hidden in the mountains. It had taken nearly a week, to travel back up to the Grizzlies and find her, and at least once, Arthur thought he was going to die of hypothermia up there.  But the look on Dutch’s face, when Arthur showed up at camp in Horseshoe Overlook with a gleaming white Arabian to rival The Count, oh, it made all the trouble and the risk of freezing his balls off worth it.

And she was a good horse.  Albia was the first horse he’d had who filled the gap left by Boadicea. She was willful and loyal and fast, exactly what Arthur wanted in a horse.

But Albia only cared to accept so much attention before she broke away to go back to grazing with the other horses, and Arthur once again had nothing to do.

Dutch, at least, was still in camp. Maybe Arthur hadn’t really been looking forward to filling his day with grandiose speech and philosophical discussions of freedom and civilization, but was there anything else to do?

But that, apparently, wasn’t going to pan out either.

Arthur was within twenty feet of Dutch’s tent when he heard the raised voices.

“Oh! So making a man feel guilty is how you think you will inspire love and devotion in—“

“Oh, shut up, Dutch.”

Arthur sighed, and veered off towards his own tent. He leaned against the barrel where he kept his mirror and his razor, and promptly ignored every other word that came from Molly and Dutch’s tent.

He looked around camp—still, most people were just going about their daily chores—and then up at the sky, to see if there were any interesting clouds. There were only a few wisps decorating a vivid blue sky, so then he turned his eyes down, to the grass. The grass was dry and brittle, all of it barely green, but there was some kind of little black beetle running along, a few inches away from his boot. He had no idea what kind it was, but maybe he could draw it later. It was kinda shiny, with a tiny head and a long body—

Dutch burst forth from the tent, snapping Arthur out of his distraction. Dutch came to an abrupt stop right beside Arthur, looking totally bewildered, like his mind was still in the tent fighting with Molly and he wasn’t sure when or how he’d left.

“Everything alright?” Arthur asked, mostly as a joke that he would admit wasn’t very funny.

“That woman,” Dutch seethed, his eyes still have crazed. “That woman will destroy my spirit and eliminate my will to live, _and_ _then_ she will spit on my corpse for not giving her enough reverence and attention.  The nerve, to make every problem about herself.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Arthur. Sometimes, when I think about your self-imposed celibacy, it breaks my heart for you. Other times, I am envious of your wisdom and your restraint.”

Arthur furrowed his brow and glared, but Dutch didn’t seem to notice or he didn’t care. Bastard.

“I’m going into town, far away from where that harpy can berate me for not bowing down and worshipping at her feet.”

And Dutch stormed off again, unhitched The Count from his post in the shade of the largest tree, and galloped off into the forest.

Dutch sure was lucky he was family.

And now there was no one Arthur could talk to, not without drawing them away from their chores and risking Miss Grimshaw’s wrath, not without disturbing Kieran and Javier from their fishing, and they were probably out there catching the camp’s dinner.

Well, he supposed. He could always go back to sleep. It was already hot as hell and humid, but maybe he’d be able to rest in the shade of his tent, with the occasional breeze from the lake to cool him.

He sighed, once again, and turned towards his cot in defeat. Arthur felt like he was fifteen again—like Dutch and Hosea left him behind to watch the camp while they went off on some job he couldn’t be trusted on. All of the impatience, all of the restlessness, and none of the privacy, so he couldn’t even pass the time as he had when he was that young, with his prick in his hand and his mind full of half-finished fantasies.

Maybe, the next time he met some Lemoyne Raiders, or even some O’Driscolls, he should just blow them all up with some dynamite. Or, otherwise, just let them kill him. Arthur didn’t have much experience dying, but it had to be faster and easier than this, right?

He tried not to jump after Molly startled him, appearing from the tent in a flash of red and green, stomping out onto the patch of dusty ground just in front of the passage into the tent, her fan in hand. She came to a sudden stop and then looked around the camp, as if she needed to be certain Dutch was gone. She relaxed a little when she saw Arthur standing there, alone.  

“You alright?”  He asked. 

“Yes.  No.  I—that man—“  She growled, her accent heavy.  “I just want to help him.  I know he has a lot on his mind, and I know something isn’t right, and I just want to _fucking_ help him, because that’s what I’m supposed to do, and what I want to do. But no, he doesn’t need any help, because he’s the almighty Dutch van der Linde, and why should he need help from some meer mortal?”  She set her jaw and blinked away the mistyness in her eyes as she began to rapidly fan herself.   

Arthur sighed, and out of a sense of obligation to the camp, and because he had nothing better to do, asked “Would you like to talk?”

Molly’s blue eyes dart over to him, and her glare recedes as she looks to him, from head to toe.  

“Yes.  No.  What I would really like to do is punch something, or shoot something.”  

Her voice was sharp and cutting as she snapped her fan shut, and then looked at Arthur like she was staring down the sights of a loaded gun. “Actually, can I suck your cock instead?” 

Arthur was not proud of the way he stared at her, like a dazed cow in front of an oncoming train, until he finally maked sense of the words that had come from her mouth.  

He knew better than to ask, _are_ _you_ _sure_ , even if that was his reflex. He didn’t need to know the woman perfectly to know that no one made Molly O’Shea do anything she didn’t want to do.

And she was gorgeous. Arthur always had a soft spot for freckles and bright eyes.   

Arthur knew he shouldn’t say yes, both out of loyalty to Dutch and because of the very principal of  the matter.  But Dutch also shouldn’t have said that bullshit about “self-imposed celibacy” as if he didn’t damn well know every detail of Arthur’s past.  

Without the shame he knew he should feel, Arthur answered.  

“Sure.” He murmured, not wanting to pass a unique opportunity by. And as he had already concluded, he didn’t have a better way to fill his time.  “Where do you, uh—“

“In the tent, of course. Sneak around and come in the side by the lake in five minutes.”

And then she turned on her heel, untied the little bits of rope holding the canvas panels open, and disappeared inside to the privacy of the tent with a flurry.

Arthur took a deep breath, and looked around the camp. Most people were still very intent on their chores, or whatever the hell it was they do all day. Tilly—dear, sweet girl—was chopping up something at the table next to Pearson’s wagon.  She looked up in time to meet Arthur’s gaze, and raised her eyebrows and tilted  her head to the side.

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, and Tilly nodded her head in reply before she went back to her work.

Turning to his own tent, Arthur briefly checked his face in the mirror to make sure he wasn’t looking flustered or flushed, or that he didn’t have any apple in his teeth, and then he sat in the edge of his bed, and grabbed his journal from where he had left it next to his table.

He wrote two sentences.

_Spent the day at camp for the first time in a long time. Dutch and Molly were fighting again—I was almost glad I was around to witness it._

And then he left his journal behind, and quietly, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention to himself, Arthur walked around his wagon, towards the lake.

Only two people were standing on the lakeshore—Kieran and Javier, who were so far away, and so intent on their fishing, they were of no concern to Arthur.

He was nearly about to pull the canvas back when Arthur saw the funds box and the camp ledger sitting there, at the corner of the tent. He pulled the wedding ring and the belt buckle he’d taken from the Raiders the day before from his pants pocket, and dropped them in the box.

Arthur did the most for the gang, and gave the most. Giving and taking—that was how he’d stay as Dutch’s right hand man—or, left hand, Arthur supposed.  Hosea was the real right hand, of course, but is _a left hand man_ something people say? 

He slipped inside of the tent, and saw Molly sitting on the edge of the bed, clearly agitated. She’d abandoned her fan and her shawl, as well as her shirt and her corset, leaving her in a sheer white chemise.

There had already been a buzzing feeling, deep in Arthur’s body, but now it filling him, up to the chest. The idea of touching Molly, and of Molly touching him, was delicious enough on its own, but one sight of this woman, who wanted him, and he was growing hard.

Molly stood.

“Sit on the bed.” She commanded, keeping her voice low. She moved back a step so that Arthur could slide by her, his hips brushing past hers.

Arthur sat on the edge of Dutch’s bed, his feet flat on the floor and his legs spread. He looked up, into Molly’s blue eyes, and smiled, oh so slightly, when he saw spite and rage in her narrowed pupils.

This would be good.

He held out a hand, as if Molly were descending from a plush stagecoach, which she gladly took as she gracefully sank onto her knees before him.

She leaned forward, her head tucked into Arthur’s shoulder for a moment, as her hands skimmed up his thighs and grabbed onto Arthur’s belt.

“Keep quiet.” She whispered.

“Sure.” Arthur answered, as she pulled her head back. She stared him dead in the eye, challenging him like she was a bull and he was one of those fools with a red flag as she pulled the leather through the buckle, and then unbuttoned his trousers.

Arthur shifted on the bed, and pulled his pants down while she unbuttoned his underwear, their eyes never leaving each other, not for a second.

Molly finally looked away as she pulled Arthur’s cock out of his pants, her hand warm and soft as she stroked him once, twice, thrice. She was a little more gentle than he liked, but he knew it wouldn’t be long until her lips had replaced her hand, it wasn’t like he was going to suffer under her ministrations.

On the contrary. He wasn’t completely hard, but it would not be long until he got there. Arthur had been with women—and a man or two, if he was being quite honest—who had that look in their eye, the gleam Molly had when she asked to suck his cock. It was the look of someone who had a point to prove, who was willing to bet everything they had on one hand.

Fooling around with someone like that had always worked out in Arthur’s favor.

Molly stoped, and looked up.

“You have a lovely prick, you know that?“  She asked, her voice dark before she looked back down at the prick in question.  Molly wasn’t the first to tell him that—but maybe someday someone will tell him that and he’ll really believe it.

She bent down, and licked her warm pink tongue to from the base up, to the very tip.  Arthur exhaled, slowly, half of a groan slipping between his opened lips as her tongue danced around the head of his cock, once, twice. And the she captured the head between her lips and started sucking, gently, as one of her hands brushed over Arthur’s balls.

“And you have perfect lips.” With one hand, Arthur brushed a few of Molly’s auburn curls away from her face. Her hair was soft and perfect. Not that Arthur would have expected anything else—Dutch was the kind of man who needed to touch, and to hold, to have. Every woman that Dutch had ever had live with him in his tent—not that there were many who made it that far—was quite a lot like Molly. Plush, and soft.

Molly’s head bobbed down, and then up, and then down again, just a little farther, before she sucked her way back up the shaft of his cock, and then released him.

“I reckon I’m not the first woman of Dutch’s that you’ve taken your trousers off for, am I?” She asked, her lips twisting into a sarcastic smile—the only kind of smile Arthur had ever seen on Molly’s face.

“Oh?”

Well, he always knew she was a clever woman, but—

“You weren’t shocked when I asked. All of the other men in the gang, oh, they would never dare to even think about me on my knees, they wouldn’t betray Dutch like that, but once you realized I wasn’t pulling your leg, you hardly batted your pretty blonde eyelashes.”

Ehhh. She wasn’t wrong. Arthur briefly imagined Molly approaching Javier, or Bill—

Okay. Maybe Bill wasn’t the best candidate, loyalty to Dutch regardless.

“No, this isn’t the first time.”

She chuckled, and stroked her hand up and down his prick with a few lazy strokes.

“Was it this Annabelle that Dutch never shuts up about?”

“No, it was—“

And then Molly’s mouth was back on his cock, sliding down, pushing her tongue along the bottom, until nearly the whole shaft was in her warm, wet mouth. A cobbled mess of noises came from deep within Arthur’s chest and throat, noises that he desperately cut off, weary of anyone passing by the tent on the outside.

He took a deep breath, collecting himself as he looked down into Molly’s eyes, looking smug as could be. A moment later, she pulled her head back, and began a pattern of ups and downs, of sucking and licking that was the best goddamn thing Arthur had ever felt, as far as he was concerned at that moment.

Arthur forced himself to continue, to ignore the feeling of ember of heat growing warmer deep within him.

“I was a cocky little shit, when Annabelle was alive. I had some filthy dreams about her, and made some improper remarks just to get a rise out of Dutch—she thought I was hilarious—but no. It was—“ He took another deep breath as Molly pulled back to suck on the head, her eyes curious and her eyebrows raised. She was listening.

“It was after Annabelle.” The growing tension was getting harder to ignore, and part of him didn’t want to ignore it. But for now, Arthur just relaxed, his shoulders dropping and his breathing a little easier.

“Dutch went on a bit of a bender.  Every town we went to, he found a woman. Sometimes they were working women, sometimes they were heiresses, sometimes they were the minister’s wife. He was obsessed and possessive of each of them, until it was time for us to leave town, and then he couldn’t be bothered to remember their names.”

All the while, Molly’s head still moved up and down, up and down.

“We moved to our ninth or tenth town after he started this, this rut, and after two days there, I ended up in the saloon, and so did Dutch. I saw him, with his brand new woman, a pretty girl with long curls all the way down her back. Dutch didn’t know I was in the saloon that night, and I never told him, even as he spent the whole goddamn morning the following day talking about the lovely, perfect young woman who had sucked him off on the saloon’s balcony that night.”

Arthur cleared his throat as Molly released his cock from her perfect, swollen lips, and stroked it with her hand again. She mimicked the slow and steady pace her mouth had been set, while laying her head to rest on Arthur’s thigh. And then he took a slow breath and continued his story.

“The next night, Dutch and Hosea were off playing poker—they were hoping to bust a few of the local ranchers, make them a little angry and a little desperate—so I went to the saloon, on my own again. I found her—the girl Dutch had taken to the night before. She was just about my age, and she was lively and sweet and very... agreeable.”

Arthur’s story was no longer much of a distraction from the burning knot in his stomach—the opposite, rather. His eyelids fluttered shut, for just a moment, and a sudden shock of light and of pleasure flowed through him. Molly sensed this, and her hand slowed, so Arthur decided to finish his story as fast as possible.

“Those days, we lived out of hotels as often as we did in tents, since there were only a few of us. So I invited her back to my hotel room that night, and we were awake until dawn, fooling around. I was young then, a fool, and I didn’t know as much about pleasing a woman as I thought I did, but I showed her everything that I did know, and she showed me the same.

“That morning, Dutch and Hosea and I were suppose to go out, gather some information on the ranches we were fixing to con. And I knew that. We were up all night, so of course, I over slept. And then in the morning, Dutch and Hosea let themselves into my room, and saw that I had company. And Dutch saw that I had taken his new girl to bed before he did, and his face went ashen white, and he was completely bewildered.

“Hosea oh so politely told me to get dressed and leave the girl behind to get some rest, unaware of what I’d done. We went about our business, and Dutch didn’t say a goddamn thing to me the whole day, and for the next few days, he only spoke to me when he really needed to. He never yelled, or even looked at me the wrong way. He just didn’t have a clue what to do.”

Arthur started to smile. Yeah, maybe it was real backwards of him, but that night with that pretty young thing had been something, and made all the better by seeing that _he_ could have power over Dutch, for once.

And here he was, once again, growing ever closer to the edge with Dutch’s girl’s mouth sucking him off. 

But the story wasn’t over.

“Anyway, that broke him of his habit of taking a new girl every town and throwing them away. The next woman he took up with was, well, Miss Grimshaw.  But I’d rather not talk about that in detail.”

Molly pulled away, but kept one hand wrapped around the base of his prick as she genuinely and unabashedly chuckled.

“Cunning bastard.” She whispered, her lips brushing against the shaft of his cock.   

And then she looked up at him, a bright and genuine smile on her face, lighting up her eyes, as she told him, “I’ve changed my mind. I want you to fuck me.”

Arthur swallowed down his groan.

 _Could this be more any more torturous?_  

_Could his day possibly get any better?_

Sure, he was real worked up, but what use was any of this unless he could remind Molly what it was like to be with someone other than Dutch? To remind her what Dutch can’t give her, what Dutch won’t give her?  Other than than the grim satisfaction of knowing that this little trist had happened, with Dutch being none the wiser.  

“Get on the ground.” Arthur growled, and Molly complied immediately, crawling backwards to lounge in the middle of the tent’s floor, her legs cast out in front of her.

She pulled her chemise free from the waist of her skirt, and tossed it aside. If she’d asked, Arthur would absolutely admit to Molly that he was distracted—enraptured, even—by her breasts, as if he’d never seen a pair before. They were round and full, and there were brown freckles scattered across her chest when her dresses had bourne her skin to the sun.  Arthur’s eyes searched for any pattern, a constellation, as Molly unbuttoned her skirt and untied her petticoats and drawers, shimmied them over her hips and down her legs, and set them neatly aside.

And then he had a whole new view to admire.  Arthur would have liked to have drawn her—her legs, her hips, her waist, her chest—but that was about the stupidest idea imaginable.

So he settled for telling her, “You are a sight to behold, Miss O’Shea.”

She answered him with a small smile, one more like the smile she gave him when he wished her good morning and offered her a cup of coffee than anything meant to be seductive or winsome.  But then her gaze grew pointed.

“And I’m feeling a little bit like I’m the odd one out, here.” 

“Fair enough.”  Arthur said, finally standing from the edge of the bed.  It was much faster for him to undress, especially since, being stuck at camp, he hadn’t even bothered with putting on gloves or a tie, let alone his holster and bandolier.  Arthur left his clothes—shirt, vest, pants, unionsuit and all—on the bed, and then he accepted the hand Molly held out to him, lowered himself onto his knees, and then leaned over her, close enough he could feel her warmth radiating out from her, from her body. 

Laying one delicate, finely fingered hand on his center of his chest, Molly stopped him from leaning any further forward.

“Let me ride you.”  She said.  “It’ll be easier on that wound of yours.”

And Arthur had damn near forgot. He’d been shot—that’s why he was in camp during the day in the first place, and had been there to witness the end of Dutch and Molly’s spat.

Part of him wanted to protest, to prove that a little bullet wound wouldn’t stop him from fucking her the way she wanted to be fucked, but, well.  It was real hard to say no to a beautiful woman when she said she wanted to ride him.

“Alright.”  He said. And then, as if he could not stop his damn pride from interrupting matters by proving he was still _fine_ , he wrapped his less-than-good arm around Molly’s waist, and threw his other hand out to the canvas tent floor to hold himself up.  And then he turned himself under, bringing Molly with him, so that he was the one reclined on the ground, with Molly laying on top.  He let her have a moment to right herself, to push herself up and to straddle his waist, and then he cleared his throat.   

“But first, Miss O’Shea...” He pushed his warm hand from her waist, down over her hip, across her plush thighs and up, to her cunt. Molly’s breathing hitched as two gun-calloused fingers brushed over her clitoris, and then parted her lips. Arthur wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her forward, just a little closer to him, before pushing one finger up, inside of her.

She was hot, and wet, but not as wet as he’d like.  He crooked the finger inside of her forward, and made little circle movements around her clitoris with his thumb.  Almost immediately, Molly sighed, and her head dropped back and her hands grabbed onto his shoulders.  She sighed a second time, and Arthur increased the pace of his thumb, coaxing her just a little further.  In response, Molly made a warm little humming noise in her throat and ground her hips into his hand. 

Arthur pushed his finger up, deeper inside her, and soon paired it with another finger, brushing them both against her walls. She hummed again, openning her eyes and looking down at him in smug surprise, as if it hadn’t occured to her that he might care about how she felt.  

Not like Arthur was being altruistic, exactly.  

Molly had grown wetter around him, and the two fingers inside of her had started making obscene, slick noises as he moved.  He slowed his thumb and withdrew his fingers, dragging them over her lips, and she furrowed her brow in the slightest frustration.

“Ready?”  Arthur whispered, knowing full well that she was.

She nodded, and he pulled her forward, holding her soft stomach against his for just a moment, before she worked her arm between them, held him in her hand, and then slowly sank down onto his cock.

How long had it been since he’d been with someone like this?  Arthur could have pinpointed the month and the day and the year, if he’d been in the mind to think about it.  But this, this reminded him of why people made absolute idiots out of themselves for sex and for companionship.  The feeling of being held, surrounded, of the push and pull.  It was more than enough to motivate sin and foolishness.

This had been sin and foolishness from the start. 

Molly grabbed onto his shoulders, planted her knees to either side of his waist, and rolled her hips forward.  He watched as her eyes fell shut once more, as she rolled her hips forward again, threw her shoulders back and stretched her body high, finding the perfect angle to rock against him.  It was perfect for her, if her gentle moan was any evidence, and it was certainly perfect for him.  The heat and the tension inside of him had hardly dimmed as they undressed and as Molly prepared to ride him.  He wouldn’t last long, and Molly wasn’t exactly going quickly as she rolled her hips towards him like a crashing wave, over and over.

Grabbing her by the hips and fucking up into her, though, seemed a little rude, and Dutch and Hosea had gone through a lot of trouble to teach Arthur some manners.

And wouldn’t they both be so proud of him right now? 

So he sat up a little further, and with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around Molly’s waist, he grabbed onto Molly’s side, resting his thumb just below her perfect breast.  He pushed his thumb up, massaging her warm, perfectly soft skin, and dragged his thumb back down, letting his nail catch on her rosy pink nipple.

”Shite.”  She swore through gritted teeth,  her hips hitching forward.  “Do that again.”  

He did, and Molly but her tongue.  And then Arthur leaned forward even more and bent from the waist—not the most comfortable posture, he would survive someone—and licked, and then sucked, on her other nipple.  

Her hips began moving faster, and Arthur smiled for just a moment, his forehead resting on Molly’s décolletage before returning to giving her the attention she deserved.  He continued pulling at and sucking on her nipples, cradling and massaging her breasts, until he decided to bite down, and pulled gently.  Molly gasped, and twisted her hips erratically, breaking her steady dance. 

“I’m close,”  she confessed, her voice hoarse.  Arthur nodded, and pulled Molly closer, his hand under her breast entwining around her, resting on her spine and helping her stay upright as one of her own hands dropped down to the junction between her hips.

Molly started moving faster, bouncing up and down, without shame.  The slick noises made by their joinder were too loud, it would be impossible for anyone standing directly outside of the tent to ignore.  But Arthur had no fear of being discovered, even if he knew exactly what hell would be in store for him if someone were to find out what they’d done.  He was too full of burning potential to care.

Arthur might know better than to commit this memory to pencil and paper, but he would never forget this.  How Molly looked, her head falling farther and farther back, her neck stretched out.  How the flush on her face had traveled to her ears, her nose, and halfway down her chest.  How confidently and soundly she fucked him, how shamelessly she took her pleasure from him. How each time she moved down, taking him further within her, Arthur felt like this was where he was meant to be.  Each rock of her hips, each time her soft skin brushed against his, Arthur felt the world grow more and more quiet, until there was only the sound of her rapid breathing and  the blood rushing in his ears.  

But she—

She was holding back.

And Arthur wouldn’t last long.

They were already as close as two people could be, joined together, Molly held closely in Arthur’s arms.  So all Arthur had to do was tilt his head so slightly to the side, resting his chin in the crook of her neck, and whisper in her ear.

”Shhh, shhh.  Come on, sweetheart.  Let go for me.”

Two or three beats later, Molly snapped.  A tiny, precious noise not so very different from a hiccup slipped through her open, swollen lips, and her brown eyes screwed shut.  As her core seized and fluttered around him, Arthur guided her through her last few thrusts with his arm wrapped around her hips.

Arthur took three steady breaths and watched, as Molly took in one gasping breath, like she’d been saved from drowning, and her closed eyes and her body, curled in on itself, opened up.  Molly was only half alert as she pushed herself back, Arthur’s cock slipping from her.  Her hand quickly replaced her cunt, and she stroked him fast and quick another handful of times before Arthur bit his bottom lip, exhaled, and came all over her hand.

And now it was Molly’s turn to watch, as Arthur relaxed for the first time in weeks, maybe months, and as head dropped forward, chin against his chest.  With her clean hand, Molly brushed a few sweaty locks of hair from Arthur’s forehead, and he finally opened his blue-green eyes.  

And the two of them were suddenly filled with the sort of bashfulness that came from seeing their sin in the light of day, without lust clouding their vision.  They were flushed and sweaty and the tent reeked of their recent... exercise.  And yet, their shame only went to far—they were both completely pleased with themselves.

“Here.”  Molly said, pushing herself up to stand, even though it was obvious she hadn’t quite regained her sea-legs.  She went to the wash basin next to the gramophone, and poured some water onto an old cloth.  Arthur took one last chance to admire her legs, her ass, her waist, as she turned back to him, and offered him the cloth before returning to the basin and freshening up herself.

Arthur quickly wiped at the sweat on his brow, the scratches on his shoulders, and as quickly as he could, cleaned his softening, overly sensitive member.

In his own mind, it didn’t help him smell any less like Molly, but it was the best he could do for now.  

Without another word, Molly retrieved the wet cloth from him, and tucked them away underneath the basin, and proceeded to dab on some perfume.

Arthur stood, and set about dressing.  His union suit, his pants, shirt, suspenders, vest, even the goddamn deputy badge.  Once he was finished, Molly danced around him in the narrow tent, and stopped to look him up and down—this time, presumably, for any evidence of what they had just done.  She did not say anything else.  

Her hair had been combed and her skin had returned to her normal creamy complexion.  Sweat still glittered along her brow and her collarbone, but in this humidity, there was nothing suggestive about that.  But still, she was entirely nude.

“You alright? You need helped getting dressed or anything?”  Arthur asked, breaking their silence.  

Molly shook her head, sat on the edge of the bed, and then combed her fingers through her curls, pulling them away from her face.  

“No, thank you. I’m not planning on getting dressed. I know Dutch, he’ll be back by noon, and I’ll wait for him right here.”

She propped up the pillows and stretched out across the bed, adopting a pose Arthur had seen in more than one smutty photograph throughout his life.

“Well, alright then.” Arthur said, straightening out his freshly buttoned vest, and struggling to think of the polite way to say goodbye in this sort of situation. Thank you? Have a nice day?

“Thank you for indulging me, Arthur.” Molly said as she settled into the pillows and closed her eyes.

“Anytime.”

She smiled.

“That’s a dangerous thing to say. I might actually take you up on that offer.”

Arthur returned her smile, noded, and said “You know where to find me,” and then he slipped out of the tent.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a couple of other works for RDR2 simmering away, so if you enjoyed this, keep an eye out! I don’t, as a rule, ship Arthur/Molly, but I do ship Arthur/happiness.
> 
> Also, I apologize if this is too heavy on narration and too light on dialogue. Normally, I have the opposite problem, but this fic turned into something real different real quick.
> 
> Also, second appology for any typos—I published this from my phone because I would literally never publish anything if I didn’t force myself at metaphorical knifepoint, so I will clean anything up ASAP


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